


War Story

by LR Bowen (LRBowen_MadameManga)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25875073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LRBowen_MadameManga/pseuds/LR%20Bowen
Summary: Based on "The Killing Game" parts I and II, airing the week of March 4, 1998. The Hirogen occupy Voyager. Many of the crew are trapped in a holographic simulation of a WWII battle in occupied France, neural implants stripping them of their identities and giving them the memories of the characters they play. Janeway and Seven have recovered their awareness, but no one else has, and they must play the game to the end. Chakotay has the persona of "Captain Miller", an American soldier, and has no idea who he really is. He believes Janeway is "Catrine", a Frenchwoman running the local Resistance cell. Janeway recruits his help to blow up the console in Sickbay that controls all the neural implants, and when the explosion comes, everyone recalls who they are-but share none of the characters' memories.
Relationships: Janeway/Chakotay
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	War Story

War Story by L.R. Bowen Star Trek: Voyager is copyright by Paramount Pictures, Inc. No infringement is intended. Story is copyright by L.R. Bowen, LRBowen@aol.com . Do not sell or print for sale without the express written permission of the author, and do not circulate without the author's name and this disclaimer attached. Permission is granted to circulate free of charge in electronic form. Please do not archive without contacting the author.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I haven't written in this vein for some time-Voyager has disappointed me so badly I thought I had lost the desire entirely. Even the episode on which this is based struck me as no more than light entertainment. But it had good moments for the characters, the part of Voyager I have always loved best, and I enjoyed it for their sake. Then I got talking to Em Wycedee and she lured me down the garden path again. She is my muse for J/C stories, and this is for her since it was hers initially anyway. Neither of us wanted to write it at first and then both of us ended up doing so! For her version, see .

Based on "The Killing Game" parts I and II, airing the week of March 4, 1998. The Hirogen occupy Voyager. Many of the crew are trapped in a holographic simulation of a WWII battle in occupied France, neural implants stripping them of their identities and giving them the memories of the characters they play. Janeway and Seven have recovered their awareness, but no one else has, and they must play the game to the end. Chakotay has the persona of "Captain Miller", an American soldier, and has no idea who he really is. He believes Janeway is "Catrine", a Frenchwoman running the local Resistance cell. Janeway recruits his help to blow up the console in Sickbay that controls all the neural implants, and when the explosion comes, everyone recalls who they are-but share none of the characters' memories.

Apologies in advance for assorted racial slurs, etc., predicated by the 1940s outlook. The character was apparently based on war movies of the period, as might make sense for an entertainment holoprogram.

War Story  
by L.R. Bowen

One unforgettable dame.

Her Christian name is Catrine and I didn't hear of any other. She has legs that won't quit, and blue eyes I could get lost in, and red hair that makes me glad I'm a man. Though she reminds me of General Eisenhower in a way, but a good way. I'm not used to that in a woman. 

I figure it's because she's French, and because she's Resistance. They've been fighting underground for a long time, and the women do it as well or better than the men. They've got options men don't have for covert work, though I don't know if American girls would take advantage of that kind of option. Catrine had a girl in her party at the bar, a little brunette with pouty lips. That one was hard as nails, but she had a Kraut's kid in her belly and utter hatred for the father. 

I don't know if my sister could do something like that for her country, or if I'd even want her to. She took over her husband's store when he was drafted and she's doing good business on her own, but that's just common smarts and grit. What does it mean to a woman to sell herself, or be taken as a prize of war? 

America would be a different country if we had ever been invaded, God forbid. German soldiers and French resistance fighters-they have more in common with each other than they do with us, though God knows we're not perfect. I've had men shot for rape, twice. If the Japs invaded California they'd degrade every American girl from the age of twelve on up-I saw "Assignment: Burma" like everyone else. We're Americans and we'll behave like Americans. We've got respect for women. Even tough Frenchwomen who run bars and Resistance cells.

She's lying six feet away from me and breathing quietly, but I know she's awake. The ground is too damn hard and cold to do anything but wait until we're sure they're gone. Soldiers learn to sleep anywhere, but that skill's eluding me just now. There's only a sliver of light from the mouth of the cave and that's enough for me to see her outlines, so I turn over. I can still see her when I close my eyes.

The first time I saw her I almost thought I recognized her. She seemed to know me as well. I took that as a good sign, though it doesn't make a lot of sense. I've never been to France before. Probably she was recognizing the uniform and what it means. Her long fight is nearly over and mine's just beginning. We're not so far from the Rhine now, but it'll be a bumpy drive to Berlin.

I knew something important about her right away. She was comfortable with me and I was comfortable with her. Well, as comfortable as a man can be when he's getting hot and bothered in the middle of a firefight. I felt a little ashamed of myself, but at the same time I was glad for the distraction. I'd seen nice-looking girls in England and plenty after D-Day-they nearly kissed me to death in Paris-but I'd kept my hands off them for the most part. An officer should be an example to his men. My lieutenant has a problem with that sometimes, but he's a good kid. No harm in looking, though, if you keep your eyes in the right place. It reminds you what you're fighting for.

So I didn't just look her up and down like I was undressing her, though the thought crossed my mind a little too quickly. I was fighting a battle, for cripe's sake. A tough one with some unpleasant surprises. It scares me to see how far the Nazis have gone with munitions research. If they have that kind of firepower way out here in occupied France, what the hell do they have in the Third Reich itself? When are they going to use it? This is going to be a long war and a lot of boys are going to die. She had saved a lot of boy's lives already and I knew she'd keep on doing it if it cost her her own. I trusted her the moment I looked into those eyes.

Though I thought she was keeping something from me. How did she know what was in that bunker? She must have found out something from the local Waffen-SS commandant to analyze it at a glance the way she had. Warheads that would blow up an entire valley? I've heard a few rumors about super-weapon projects on both sides, but how would she know what the result looked like? She's no plain restaurant owner; maybe she's got some kind of training in these things herself. I wonder who she really is.

So although I was there to liberate her town, I felt a little out of her league, like she had the Legion of Honor and the Croix du Guerre winking at me from a gold-braided uniform tunic. I wanted to stand at attention when she spoke, but I wanted to kiss her at the same time. That threw me for a loop, but it was kind of a challenge as well. She isn't the kind of dame you can throw a line at and expect to reel in without a struggle. 

I figure after the battle's over, assuming Sainte-Claire isn't just a heap of burning rubble with us buried under it, I might get to know her a little better and find an angle. Before I have to keep rolling along, that is. I might get a week while we mop up with her help, since she'll know who the real collaborators are. She has good people around her. I respect that. Shows she's a judge of character. That hard little brunette Brigitte;, that big blonde munitions expert who gives a literal meaning to "bombshell"; that colored fellow who must be Senegalese or maybe Algerian and who's got a mind like a decrypting machine. She's done a lot with them and she'll do more before she's finished.

I hate the thought that she might get hurt before this is over. Or even killed, though being shot would be a hell of a lot better than capture in her case. I'm an American officer and even Krauts know the Geneva Convention, but a Resistance leader, a pretty woman... I don't like to think about it. I'll save a bullet for her-but she probably has an out already. She's the kind of woman who would have thought of that.

I'm not going to get any sleep this way. I'm thinking too much on uncomfortable subjects. Those men outside are three sheets to the wind and falling quiet, though they snore like locomotives. 

Something about these people ain't according to Hoyle. "Eccentric" doesn't cut it. Leather armor? Their weird language? And those facial scars, or whatever they are. Are they escaped subjects of a Nazi experiment? What Catrine's told me is a story to fend off the questions and I have to decide if it's with ulterior motives or not. I have the feeling she doesn't think I can handle the whole truth. 

Sure, I'm used to being told only what I need to know, but that's in the Army. She's a civilian and a foreigner. She operates out of a bar full of shady characters, she's interested only in her goals and I get the feeling she would do damn near anything to accomplish them. It occurs to me that Brigitte may not be the only good-looking dame who's ever given it up to a Kraut for information. 

I hate the way that makes me feel since it's none of my business. But it's cold water on my crotch and for a moment it washes away the pretty pictures I was seeing while she crawled ahead of me in the tunnels. Can I trust her and this knowledge of hers? I'm lost without her, so I may have to. I roll over and watch her stir restlessly six feet away. It was her suggestion that we wait in this cave until the Nazi searchers left, but I don't think she's slept at all. Probably worried about her people just the way I am. I'd rather trust out of conviction than out of necessity.

It's cold in here away from the fire. I wish I had my bedroll and I wish I had a cigarette and I wish I had a goddamn hot meal inside me even if I had to use a Zippo to cook it in my helmet. The ground's colder than the air, so I sit up and hunch over. We should get going-hiding isn't going to win any battles. She turns and looks at me, then sits up as well.

"Captain...Miller," she says.

"That's me," I reply, finding my helmet and putting it on again. "We ought to get moving." She's looking at me funny and I get a prickle at the back of my skull. If she brought me here to bump me off, get rid of the Allied officers...and if Brigitte is doing the same with Davis... hell, no, it's not so. It's only one part of me that has any suspicions at all, the part that went through officer training school and listened to the OSS man talk about fifth columnists. There's another part of my mind, a deeper part that can't speak in words, that simply knows she's got the same goals I have. As if it had been proven over and over. She's searching my face as well as she can in the darkness.

"What are you thinking?" Her voice is soft but charged. Loretta Young does that kind of voice.

"That I know you from somewhere. It's crazy, but I can't shake the idea."

"Don't try to." She reaches out with a smile and touches my shoulder. It's just a casual gesture but it makes me take a quick breath. I'm doing such a rotten job of controlling myself around her that she has to have noticed. I curse silently. The Brits called us "overpaid, oversexed and over here." I don't want to give the French the same impression. I've got a war to fight and so has she. So why have I gotten into this state around a woman I just met, as if she were some old flame of mine and I was recalling just how good a lay she was? Why does she look at me as if she were thinking the same thing?

"I'm glad you're here, Captain," she says. "I thought I should do this alone, but I'm still glad you're here."

"It's the Army's pleasure, ma'am."

"Not your army. You, supporting me. Sometimes I forget how important that is." It's as if she's talking to someone who's fought beside her for years. Suddenly she leans forward and kisses my cheek. Not the double-barreled peck French officers are so fond of bestowing. This is a woman's kiss and it's got no nationality. I grin foolishly.

"Well then, Chuck Miller's pleasure...ma'am." Her face is still right next to mine. I give in to the impulse and kiss her back. A little too late, I realize I've planted one right on her mouth. I'm not sure who moved first. But it's her lips that open mine.

I let her kiss me, shaking all over. "Ma'am...Catrine." I don't have much voice left. "I...I think we need to get back to the battle."

"Leave the war outside," she whispers, taking off my helmet. She's not fooling around. She's telling me she wants it all, here and now. As if there were no time to lose and there would never be another chance. Maybe she's right. But why? To thank me for bringing in the artillery? My prick has been saying yes since the moment I saw her, but my mind has got its doubts.

"Look..." I stammer. "I'm not that kind of guy...I mean, you don't have to do this, not like payment or anything..."

"That's just what I knew you'd say." It feels like she's laughing, but maybe at a different joke.

"How..?" She kisses me again and I melt, dizzy and feverish. Her mouth is hot, her lips narrow and moist. They fit perfectly against mine. I'm getting convinced she's not doing this out of any sense of obligation. My prick's nearly popping the buttons off my pants. Her pants open to the side and she slips them down over her hips. 

Silk scanties, if I don't miss my guess. Wide-legged, so she doesn't even have to take them off. She pulls them askew and guides my hand there. Her pubes are soaking wet and she's soft and swollen, as if she's been in the same state I've been in and for nearly as long. I could slide right in and be at home...but I've been around the block and I know a woman likes a little more than that. 

My first finger's in her, my thumb's on her nub, and I stroke her slowly while she kisses me and flicks my buttons open. Hard, smooth little hands, long nails with red lacquer. She's got me surrounded and she's closing in, loading the artillery... I feel like I'm going to embarrass myself, so I pull away from her and slide down her body. 

She smells like French perfume, the really expensive kind with musk or civet-that's the whole point of perfume as far as I know. And she tastes like nothing I've ever had before. So sweet. Her hands are in my hair now and she's moving my head where she wants me. 

I don't always feel like I can do this my first time with a woman, though I love it and what it does. American girls usually squeal and push me away when they realize where I'm heading. They do call it French style and I can tell she's used to it. She's getting close to her climax already. I could taste her all week, but she pushes at my shoulders and signals me to roll over. 

Her pants are on one leg and her scanties all rucked up. I find the hooks at the side and push them down her thigh, then hold her by the waist while she rises above me. My prick stands up to greet her, she takes him in her hand and holds him still while she sinks down, moaning. I can't see her face through the red hair, so I part it before I let my hips thrust upwards. She comes immediately, shaking and shuddering and holding her lips closed so she won't make too much noise. The feeling is incredible for me. I watch her face twitch and her head toss, my prick plunging through her softness while she whimpers through her nose.

Something funny happens when I come. I'm so hot I can't keep it going for much longer, not while looking into those eyes. I call her "Catherine" instead of Catrine, but I guess I'm thinking in English. I'm afraid she might think I forgot who she was, but I know I didn't. It's more like remembering who I am, though that makes no sense to me. My name's Miller, Charles Francis Miller, Captain, U.S. Army. My serial number is on my dog tags and I'm even in uniform. I know who I am and what I'm doing, and with whom. 

She collapses on me when I stop heaving. Her whole body trembles and she buries her face in my throat. She murmurs something I don't hear perfectly, maybe in French, like "Chateau-something". I hope it wasn't some other man's name. 

Somehow I think she's afraid of what I'll say next. I stroke her hair and kiss it and finally she raises her face to look at me, her eyes full of tears and some kind of urgent question, so vulnerable that my heart stops. She thinks I won't respect her any more since she threw the moves on me, that I'll remember her as a loose woman. But I know she's not. I know her now. No tough dame, no gung-ho gal in my arms, just a woman with a goal she lives to meet, and she's set it aside for the barest moment just to be with me. I feel raw gratitude and something else, like an emerging memory or a discovery, a truth stripped of illusion. As if I had always loved her.

"Catrine..." I say, to tell her I do know who she is, and something changes in her eyes. The fear goes away, but sadness remains. I want to tell her what I just discovered, but it'll sound wrong, like a platitude to make her feel better instead of what it really means. I settle for kissing her.

We do it again, my jacket folded under her so I won't drive her into the stones and twigs. I've got control of myself now and I screw her for a long time, keeping my weight on my arms as much as I can. Catrine's a slim little thing and I feel like a big oaf, trying not to break something that's more fragile than it seemed when I picked it up. 

She holds me, running her hands up and down my back, over my shirt. We still have most of our clothes on as that's only sensible. I wish I could see her breasts. It's dark, but I can feel them pressing against my chest when I lean down to kiss her. 

It's wonderful-her body squirming and gripping me as I move, my head swimming with heat and with everything that's in my heart, her sighs and moans as I take her and breathe in hard sobs, my chest aching. 

I wish it wasn't like this. For her sake. I wish this were a nice room somewhere, like a hotel in Paris or New York. I want to show her a good time the way she deserves. I might have taken her out to dinner and a show, I might have bought her some flowers to match her dress. When the evening was over, we'd sign the register as "Captain and Mrs. Miller" and the clerk would only smile and hand me the key. We'd have left our coats in the checkroom and tossed our hats on the furniture, and she'd pat her hair back and turn to me.

I'd throw her dress on a chair and scatter her underthings around, and she'd be lying there on eiderdown and smiling, her legs long and slim in silk stockings and suspender belt. I'd be able to see every inch of her. Perhaps she wouldn't be sad if it could be like that. I'd treat her the way a beautiful woman should be treated. We'd make love all night in luxury... I'd take her to the stars.

And here I am with her, pumping away on the hard cold ground as if it were a featherbed. I can feel the moment rumbling up on me again like a hundred heavy caissons. Should I tell her now? This might not be the best time-kind of reduces it to what we're doing. I'll save it. Catrine locks her ankles over me and pulls me down, her body clenching around me while she cries out, and I go off like a landmine.

We don't spend a lot of time on small talk. It really is time to go now. I can feel something hanging in the air, but she doesn't say anything. We get the explosives together and crawl off through the metallic tunnels again. My kid brother likes "Amazing Stories" and men from Mars and all that junk-he'd get a kick out of this. Personally it gives me a chill. Strange, but obsessively familiar at the same time, and I keep thinking about the sheer expertise and manpower that went into this place. I don't even recognize the metals or the strange smooth celluloid materials. Maybe we've got something like this on the Allied side too and I just don't know about it. Maybe after the war's over it'll all come out for civilian use-heck, they use all the nylon and all the auto plants now, so of course they would monopolize any weird new inventions. But I still don't like feeling out of my league.

I wonder, if I asked her to marry me, if she would say yes. And if she would come back to Oklahoma with me-not that I'd mind living in France for a while if I had to, but I'm an American and besides I might get assigned anywhere. This isn't the time to start talking about Tulsa, so I don't say anything.

I rig the bomb and set the timer for five when she asks. I'm not sure exactly what she wants to blow up, but I'll blow it up for her. I wonder if I'll ever question her again. We crawl out into the weirdest place yet. Looks pre-fab but solid, celluloid everywhere, and colored lights dancing in grid patterns on big instrument banks. There's only one guy in here, dressed like something out of a nightmare. I get him out of Catrine's way and keep the pistol cocked. Frankly, I'd like to shoot him out of hand, but she doesn't seem to want me to do that. Maybe he's meant to be a hostage. I wish I knew what the hell was going on, but I'll ask later.

More of them coming down the corridor-I try a snap shot, but the big bastard is too fast for me and knocks the pistol spinning. They're going in and I get shoved against the wall. Before I've got my breath back, I hear a shot. And a cry. Hers. God, no-one dumb move of mine-I get one glimpse through the door of her dashing away from the panel she was working on. Alive, thank God, and it's five minutes now, so if I don't run myself, I'm toast. Let the Nazis fry, and I'll meet up with Catrine later. I hope it won't be too long before I see her again.

BOOM.

The explosion concusses the air down the corridors with tremendous force that slaps me flat. Sharp pain in my head, right at the base of my skull. Shattering, tearing, splitting me in two. 

Something must have hit me since I didn't hit the wall. It's torn loose something vital. I feel myself dissolving, voices speaking in my head that don't sound like me in the least. I'm going, and I panic. I didn't tell her. I will never tell her now. 

Crackling loud like a bad radio, a glimpse of myself sprawling in a strange smooth celluloid corridor. I don't look wounded. But I just died anyway.

The strange voice is getting louder. He couldn't speak aloud before, though he was trying. It might be God, though it does sound a little like me after all-a fighter, someone thinking of a woman and a battle he's afraid he lost. If he's going to stay here after I'm gone, maybe he can take a message. 

Last spark I try to communicate as the lines go down-just something about her, take care of her, tell her how I felt about her, tell her I'm sorry oh God if you are there, if anything is there in the black electric void after death please tell her, and nothingness answers Yes.

END


End file.
